


Once in a Blue Moon

by dianasilverman



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19216291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianasilverman/pseuds/dianasilverman
Summary: Willow visits Tara's grave on an especially powerful night, hoping to have a conversation with her long dead lover.TW: Brief mention of self harm in the context of a spell.





	Once in a Blue Moon

Either it’s time well spent, or time I’ve wasted. Don’t waste it.  
Cage The Elephant, "Telescope".

Tara’s grave was smaller than Willow had remembered it, unremarkable really. The grey granite felt smooth under her fingers as she knelt before it, and still warm from the California sun. Willow shivered. The sun was quickly setting, and the ghost of a pale moon in the sky was rising, bringing with it a chill that bit through her thin grey ceremonial robes, raising goosebumps on the skin underneath. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant.

Sighing, she sat back on her heels, one finger tracing the graceful curve of a two where it was carved into the stone. It had been all too convenient to lose herself in travel and preparations. There had been taxis and planes and more taxis involved in this strange homecoming. Worse, even being the most powerful wicca in the world did not afford the privilege of taking herbs through customs, so she had been forced to leave her supplies behind. In the end, the Magic Box had saved her, the kindly old couple who now owned it all too eager to help. She wished them better luck than had befallen all the previous owners.

Even before her trip had started, though, she had avoided pondering the reasons behind it. She had gone so far as to consider lying to her friends, as she knew they could see no good in what she was doing. The prospect of avoiding that difficult conversation had been incredibly tempting, but she knew better than to give in. In the end, she had told them, albeit in spare, certain terms that brooked no argument. Only Buffy had outwardly disapproved, which Willow could hardly blame her for, given her history, but others had given her disquieted looks, leading her to wonder if they were thinking of the ones they would like to bring back. Xander had hugged her fiercely before she left.

“Are you sure…” he had asked her, as he had when she had first told him about her pilgrimage, but still unwilling to finish the question. It was okay. She knew what he was thinking.

“It only works for witches. Anya was a powerful mystical being, but never much good with complicated magics.” He had sighed into her hair, and let her go, wishing her luck.

With all that behind her, and the moment rapidly approaching, she felt suddenly unbalanced. She would have liked more time to consider what she was about to do, but the sun was sinking too fast. A tear slid slowly down her cheek, but she brushed it away. There would be time for tears later, maybe even happy ones, but for now, she had work to do.

Her bright red high tops were quickly discarded, along with the clip that had been holding up her hair. The rest of her supplies were soon spread out before her. Within minutes, she had constructed the easiest of the two spells she would be performing that night; a protection circle formed from candles in a five pointed star, connected by glistening black sand. Before completing the charm, she slipped discreetly out of her panties, and stashed them in her backpack. This ritual was ancient and wild; it would not take kindly to any vestige of modernity.

She shivered again, but this time with pleasurable anticipation. Setting down the rest of her necessaries in the circle’s center, she pressed her palms to the cool earth. As she could whenever she concentrated, she felt the gentle vibrations of a million growing things. The ground below her was alive, practically electric with roots twisting, seeds quickening, and newborn leaves seeking the sun. There were worms, too, down below, and fouler things, gnawing blindly in the dark, but she did not fear them. The power flowed through her in one dizzying jolt, and the circle was complete. It was a small price to pay, really; a headrush in exchange for protection from all the nasties that prowled a Sunnydale graveyard at night. Any passerby would see only bare grass in this spot, and would not be able to enter. She refused to be interrupted.

To start, she lay down blankets and pillows made from the same dove’s wing linen as her robe, and lit more candles, these just for their soft illumination. A bouquet of wildflowers was set gently at the base of the headstone, while a ring of pearly white mushrooms rose of their own accord, responding to the mystical energy. The space inside the circle could have been a fairy’s boudoir.

Now came the true challenge; the spell itself. These weren’t dark magics exactly, but old, deep, and powerful. In the time before writing became commonplace, wise women had drawn on the power of the rare blue moon on All Hallows Eve to learn from those long gone. Oral tradition had meant everything in those days. Centuries of persecution had meant that the spell was almost lost, but a few brave witches had passed it down, and eventually it ended up in writing, in the very book, in fact, that now rested in Willow’s lap.

She was cross legged on the blanket, burning a smudge stick of wolfsbane, forget-me-not leaves, and sage over an inky black earthenware bowl. As the scent filled the cool twilit air, she began to chant. Her voice rose and fell in a haunting rhythm, the Latin phrases long and keening. This spell, like all of its calibre, required the caster to lose herself in it, as Willow was doing. In the old days, no wicca would have attempted the ritual without a cadre of her sisters anchoring her, but Willow was strong enough to do it alone. Wave after wave of energy swept through her until she was subsumed, feeling herself to be nearly drowning, but she pressed on. All that mattered was reaching out in the murky blackness, tugging a gap in the veil.

At the spell’s climax, she pulled herself free, dropping the charred remains of the plants into the bowl, and retrieving her favorite ceremonial dagger from where it lay tucked amongst her robes. Efficiently and with only a slight grimace, she cut a bright red slash across both of her palms. Payment. Blood dripped into the bowl and evaporated with a smell like a campfire in the heart of the woods. She breathed in deeply, knitted her wounds together with a cursory glance, and sank back onto her pillow to wait.

It was done. Either Tara would come now, or she wouldn’t.

Willow must have dozed then, the spell having drained her, because when she woke, the stars were blinking on overhead, the moon heavy in the eastern sky. She was not alone. There was a hand curled in hers, a warm and achingly familiar body curled against her side. For just a second, she closed her eyes, lost in the feeling. In that moment, nothing had changed.

“Are you alright?,” Tara whispered, her breath tickling Willow’s cheek. Willow grinned incredulously.

“You come all the way, you know, and you ask me if I’m alright?”

“After the spell I mean.”

For the first time, she dared turn her head to look at her visitor. The books had not specified what the returned would look like. Having encountered all manner of zombies in her life, Willow had been prepared for the worst. She had resolved that no matter how bad it was, Tara would still be Tara. She would brush the maggots from her hair and kiss the wound in her chest and it would make no difference. But no amount of resolve could have prepared her for this.

Tara was a vision; young, whole, and exactly as she’d always been. Beautiful. Also, nude, which she didn’t seem to notice, but Willow certainly did.

“Did you know you’re glowing?”

“Oh…,” Tara said vaguely, studying her arm where it was wrapped around Willow’s waist, “I guess that makes sense.”

“You weren’t...I didn’t...take you away from anything, like with Buffy?”

“It wasn’t like that. More like…an invitation. You were radiating power, I could feel it.”

“That’s why the one whose, you know-” dead, they both thought but didn’t say “-that’s why she has to be a witch.”

“Mystical, beyond the grave heebie jeebies?”

“Exactly.”

Tara laughed. Willow hadn’t realized exactly how much empty space had been left behind by that sound until it was filled in again.

“You’re glowing, too, you know? Your power, it’s incredible, of course, but there’s something else…”

“I think,” Willow responded with a solemnity belied by the quirk of her lips, “that it might be love.”

They were kissing then, as if no time had passed since last they held each other. Tara’s soft mouth might always have been teasing at Willow’s bottom lip, just as Willow’s arms might always have been guiding Tara’s lovely hips to rest over her own. It was passionate, perfect, and just a little sad. By the time they broke apart for air, both had eyes that shone wetly in the moonlight.

“How long do I have?,” Tara asked. The spell was not known to her.

“The veil can only be parted when there’s a blue moon on Halloween.” She did not mention that this happened only every nineteen years. The last time it had occurred, she would have had no need of the spell. And the next…

“So this chance is literally-”

“Mmhmm.”

“It appears I’m yours, m’lady. Whatever shall we do?” Tara had adopted a pompous manner, and a suggestively arched brow.

“I was hoping we could compare notes. There are a number of transmogrification spells that have been giving me grief as of late…”

“Now you just sound like Giles!” Willow was going to make the excuse that she had been in Britain a lot lately, but Tara silenced her with a kiss.

If nothing could have prepared Willow for having Tara back, real, warm, and perfect, then she was even less ready for the wonder of having Tara on top of her, brushing soft kisses down her neck and nudging her robe aside. It was a sensation like falling; with each passing moment she was losing more control, giving more of herself over to this dream. Then, Tara was pulling away, still straddling Willow but sitting back.

“Is this too weird?,” she asked gently. Having sex with a ghost was, indeed, out of the ordinary, even for someone like Willow.

“God, yes,” Willow admitted. Tara made to move away, but Willow pulled her back down, kissing her and caressing her breasts. Sighing with pleasure, Tara buried her hands in Willow’s hair and kissed her back hungrily.

“It _is_ weird, but that doesn’t mean you should stop.” With a wicked grin, she slid a hand down the plane of Tara’s hipbone.

The moon was edging towards the horizon by the time they were spent. The candles sputtered low all around them as sweat and dew mixed on the grey linen blankets. Other nights before, they might have let go, drifting from each other’s arms as they drifted off to sleep. Not this night. As their breathing slowed, they stayed entangled, aware that there was precious little time left. Willow hadn’t realized how much she missed this: simple contact. She had had girlfriends and lovers in the time since, but nothing could compare to being held close by the woman you loved.

“What’cha thinking?,” Tara asked, tugging gently at a long red strand. Willow looked over at her, into those deep blue eyes. She was utterly at peace, and yet...

“I don’t deserve this.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “I killed a man. After you died. And I wanted to kill others.”

“Warren?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Where I was, where I’m going back to, it’s absolute peace. No one could ever have that if they knew what was happening to the people they love.”

“And I took you away from all that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I want to know. Tell me all of it, starting with why you’re here.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really. It’s been such a long time, for you to have come back…” Willow thought of the lines around her eyes that must have betrayed her.

“Tell me all of it.” Tara asked again, gentle but firm.

In the end, Willow did. Her typical methodical sensibilities abandoned her in places, leaving the story rambling, but in the end it was all laid out, from the gunshot that had ended Tara’s life through to the present day. The darkness that had come over her was laid out plainly, as was the loneliness that had afflicted her ever since a stray bullet had taken the love of her life. As the tale was drawing to its close, she explained her motivations for finding the spell, flying all this way, and summoning such immense power. In articulating her motives, she was finally able to take the time to understand them. She had wanted closure, forgiveness, and to hold Tara in her arms again. It was quite simple, really.

When she finished, silence fell between them. All that had happened hung in the air.

“What you did…” Tara began thoughtfully “it couldn’t bring me back, not any more than this spell can, not really.”

“I know, and I think about it all the time, and I just can’t-” She was rushing, stumbling over her words.

“But feeling guilty won’t undo it, and honestly it might be better off done.”

“You really think that?”

“He killed me, remember?” There was a glint of something steely in her eyes.

“Bastard.”

“Yeah.”

Tara appeared to consider her next words carefully, one of her graceful fingers tracing patterns along Willow’s spine. What other people had mistaken for simple shyness, Willow knew to be deep consideration: a desire to get to the heart of things before giving them words.

“So don’t ask me for forgiveness. You never had to. Don’t bring me back so you can feel like there’s a neat bow on things. Because there never will be.”

“Tara, baby…”

“Forgive yourself. I’m dead, but that doesn’t mean you can’t live. _Live_ for me, my love. Promise.”

“I promise.”

They kissed again, long and sweet and sad. Tara was fading, the radiance leaving her as the moonlight fled before the first pink whispers of dawn. Gradually, her body became lighter, too, less substantial.

“Will I see you, on the other side?” One of the unspoken tenants of their agreement was that this would be the last time Willow would call on her.

“Death is…” but she didn’t know how to express the vastness of it, so she settled for “I don’t know.”

Truthfully, Tara thought it was very possible. After all, the first sound she’d heard after the terrible blackness had released her had been her mother’s voice. But she didn’t want Willow to spend her life looking forward to the end of it. Even as she decided this, her hold on this world was slipping away with the last silvery slips of moonlight. She wrapped her arms more tightly around Willow as the strength left them. They held each other tightly in the oncoming dawn. 

“I’ll say goodbye, then.”

Tara kissed her, nodding. She was only a faint shadow by then.

“Okay, well-” Tara was gone.

“Goodbye,” Willow whispered to the empty graveyard.

Slowly and carefully, she rose, shaking off the ache in her bones that had come from spending the night on nothing but a few pillows. There was definitely going to be a bruise on her back tomorrow, trapped as she had been between Tara’s torturously sweet mouth and the hard ground. At least she had given as good as she got. She put her robes back on before breaking the circle. The black bowl, now empty, was stowed carefully in her backpack, along with her candles.

At first, she wandered the streets of her old hometown in a daze. Reality came back to her slowly, bright shards of the present piercing her reverie. To her surprise, she found she did not mind. Tara’s words echoed in her mind: promise. Willow intended to keep her word. As always, there was work to be done. The war against evil could never be won, but there were new battles to be fought every day. This was her purpose now, but she had forgotten that there was more to life than fighting. That was about to change.

She would never love anyone as she loved Tara. Seeing her again had made that clear. But she could love her friends, she could love her mission, and maybe, someday, she could love a woman, too. Not as she loved Tara, but differently, and no less real for being different. There was another someday, too: the day when her life and her work could be done. It might be far in the future, or it might be that very day, but it would come, and then she could rest, and, just possibly, see Tara again. For now, though, she could not look forward to it. There was too much living still to do.


End file.
